One-Thousand-and-One American Nights

Night #10.

I am bleeding technicolor red all over an ornate park bench in Central Square. I am tracing the patterns of the pigeons who walk, scrambling for food, like tiny telegraph tickers and miniature marching bands. They spell your name over and over again, and I mark them in time, chalk dots flamed white under the naked light of the moon.

You had just the color of the naked moon.

In scripts no Mohammedan could replicate they write the scriptures of your religion. Only aliens and fellow crop circle enthusiasts will make out these Twenty-Two-and-a-Half Commandments. The rain will wash away the first revision of your Holy Manual, and the droppings from the birds serve as punctuation and illumination for its flagstone pages.

I am entering the E.R.'s blazing florescent doors, barely conscious, but still clutching the bottle in my hand, and still holding my bloody shirt in tact.

I emerge before sunrise, spotless, flaming white.

For You 101 Freaks

After the war there wasn’t much to do in the western hemisphere. I emigrated to Europe, washing up with the tide on the beach of Normandy, feeling like I’d been there before. It was June 6th, 2044.

Trudging across the Chinese countryside (long story; don’t ask; the French never win any wars) gave me time to pick the historical lice from my brain, readjusting my view of the world to its new, lopsided smile.

I eventually got a job at a Government Church, scaring away the bums and cleaning pigeon droppings from the front steps.

Instead I spread seed, and buy cigarettes.

One-Thousand-and-One American Nights

Night #9.

I am drunk as hell, on a piano bench, contemplating 22, wishing I had the discipline to be myself again. I am planning revenge against all the stupid, god-damn demons who took her away; all her laughing, all her charm, all her hands in the air as we made love, away. I carve the word 'egregious' in the wall of my room, and leave.

I am driving, always driving, driving to escape where I'm going. I am throwing stones at heaven from the bluffs near the ocean. (God's omnipotence must be the most boring thing ever if he can't even do one little evil thing like light somebody on fire.) I throw the vodka from the truck, lights flash behind me.

Intermission.

The officer, too, lost someone to an angry guardrail, I find out at the diner later on. That's what pushed them into the service. A ticket for "failure to obey posted speed signs" rests on my dashboard. $135. The eggs are delicious. I have a friend in the law now.

This could be a good thing.

One-Thousand-and-One American Nights

Night #8.

If death were a spaceship, she'd be near Jupiter by now. I think about this as I watch clouds hide inestimable swathes of space, one at a time, and reveal them again, peek-a-boo. I wonder how we look, spiraling towards our deaths around the center of some cosmic discotheque of light. The sun has a million facets, and I only walk when it shows none.

The blankets they wrapped her in are finishing out-processing at the Clinical Sanitation Department of the NWPD. I am aware of this because I've been tracking every piece of memorabilia connected with the scene. My religion will need holy relics.

I stop for coffee again, hoping I'll like it, hoping some day I'll acquire the taste. It, like religion, is useful, if bitter.

I don't like silk, or coffee, or grill cheese, or game shows. She didn't like air conditioning, or people who used the word 'parodoxically' too often. She preferred leno to letterman, and voted democrat, on tuesdays, free will on thursdays.

I throw the coffee out the window, and decide to find a Starbucks for a latte.

One-Thousand-and-One American Nights

Night #7.

I am resting, even though it is Wednesday. I am sipping lemonade through a straw on the back porch of someone else's house, overlooking a florescent pool, bejeweled sidewalk, flickering 4x4 posts. I am taking advantage of what I like to call "makeshift timeshare."

Her memory is becoming idyllic, and is almost approaching deity. I am starting to loose imperfect details, the curve of her chin, the improper set of her shoulders, the perfect way she walked. I am starting to form a religion around her memory, working out a set of doctrines, a calendar of holy days, a litany of punishments for those who profane Her name.

The diner is my church. The alley is my sanctuary. My car is my pulpit, my prayer chapel, my confessional. My fascination with religion is over. I am fashioning a resort colony in my mind, with her as its patron saint and mermaid. She adorns the entry gates and the dinner plates. She stands on the napkins and pedestals. She is a face reflected in the hologram fountain at the front of the 30 story promenade.

Her name is She Was, and at it people cry.